My children may not be stopped from this, but they are weary of the weight of our separation, and the younger ones have started to wonder if I am every returning. School has been out, but my wife has maintained a routine, for her own sanity, and their benefit. Surely, they remain occupied for most of their day. Perhaps my arrival home will be noted with a shrug, or less, by my sons, who have lived without me for longer than they can remember. I hope and believe that this will not be the case.
The crews here have changed over. Those who saw me come in, and showed me the ropes have returned home. I talk of February and rain here, and the those newly deposited into this stink are disbelieveing, as if they are things of another epoch. Strangely, the contractors from the sub-continent, while always polite and professional, have lately started to afford a familiarity of mutual respect. They don't check my ID at the gate when they see my face; I am served my usual breakfast off the buffet by issuing a smile and without uttering a word; they even bring me curry sometimes to my office.
Let the outprocessing scavenger hunt begin... ...oh, gladly. More on this later.